tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-106888702024-03-13T22:43:26.742-07:00The Fighting ShyNotes of a Recovering MisanthropeThe Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.comBlogger82125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-25927195754570816842020-05-01T19:42:00.002-07:002020-05-01T19:45:59.231-07:00In Search of the Clampet Mansion<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">The idea
came to me as I drove past the Fox Studios Lot in Century City Los
Angeles. Why not get on a bicycle and explore the area. Of course
this looks obvious on the page. But in Los Angeles the only real
obvious mode of exploration is by automobile. I wanted to change
that. I would conceive, plan and execute a trip around Century City
and Beverly Hills by bicycle, which would forever afterwards redound
to my personal credit, or perhaps redound to my esteem, or redound to
the fascination of Los Angeles, or redound somewhere. It would be
redounding long after the bike was packed away and the parking
tickets paid. </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;"> </span></span><span style="background: transparent;">My
reasoning: </span><span style="background: transparent;">Wherea</span>s
Beverly Hills, Century City, Culver City and surrounding
neighborhoods constitute a delight for the eyes and a temptation for
the purse, they ought to be enjoyed even if you can’t live there.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Therefore, I would explore those places by being
in them, using my bicycle as a vehicle, stopping frequently wherever
interest struck or whenever confronted by an aggressive character. I
would visit Beverly Hills and Culver City and other such places as
the map might suggest, with no purpose in mind except to be there and
be awake.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Possibly the less said about nerving up for this
adventure the better. From the outside it looks like no adventure at
all. But I appeal to the candor of the reader: What foreign and
uncomfortable thing do you regularly take up and execute, even
knowing it might benefit you in the long term? How often do you break
the habit of what has become comfortable?
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background: transparent;">Having
learned how to map out rides and</span> many times reliably followed
my own routes as loaded into my trusty GPS, and returned to my
starting point, and avoided injury<span style="background: transparent;">,
</span>I laid down a route to take me around Beverly Hills. I laid it
out in a square, starting from Fox Studios, then north to Rodeo Drive
and the Will Rogers Memorial Park, then west to the Playboy Mansion,
then south toward Century City and my car.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The first part, driving there with my bicycle on
the back of my car, caused anxiety. But really, how many potential
travelers demur from travel because they worry about parking. Just
go. The truth is, almost anywhere you go you will find space for your
car, especially in America, especially on a Saturday during a
national quarantine.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I parked on Motor Avenue in Cheviot Hills, near
the Fox lot. I marked my parking spot on the GPS with the name <span style="font-variant: small-caps;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Car</span></span>
so I could get back. I made sure to mark the location of the car, not
like the last time I parked somewhere and accidentally marked the
position of the cursor, which had drifted off center on my screen.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">One of the many safety minded provisions of the
Covid 19 quarantine is the ruthless closing of any facility that
might be of use to those who happen to be away from home. These
facilities include:
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<ul>
<li>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Parks--all studiously taped with police
tape to discourage entrance</span></div>
</li>
<li>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Libraries--locked and dark</span></div>
</li>
<li>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Restaurants--ditto</span></div>
</li>
<li>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Rest rooms, of course, which can in no wise
be considered beneficial to anyone with a pandemic under way and the
populace consigned to solitary confinement.
</span></div>
</li>
</ul>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">But near where I parked I found an open <i>restroom</i>,
clean and tidy, and bless you whoever decided to overlook the edict
on closing everything useful. When civilization goes down in flames,
I am convinced, there will still be people willing to do the right
thing.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">North to Beverly Hills—actually to the ally
running parallel to Rodeo Drive, with its multi-car garage buildings,
shy dog walkers and super capacious trash cans emblazoned with the
Beverly Hills crest—a cast off party hat lay on the street by one
of them--and then over to Rodeo where it meets Wilshire, and becomes
the storied Rodeo of high-ticket boutiques.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OAUN6GFdeQs/Xqzdd5abcFI/AAAAAAAAEko/ZEnAyPNamu4-6iV3Bv9_-m6LhD5pT3nWACNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/1024px-Rodeo_Drive_%2526_Via_Rodeo%252C_Beverly_Hills%252C_LA%252C_CA%252C_jjron_21.03.2012.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="1024" height="207" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OAUN6GFdeQs/Xqzdd5abcFI/AAAAAAAAEko/ZEnAyPNamu4-6iV3Bv9_-m6LhD5pT3nWACNcBGAsYHQ/s320/1024px-Rodeo_Drive_%2526_Via_Rodeo%252C_Beverly_Hills%252C_LA%252C_CA%252C_jjron_21.03.2012.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The Beverly Wilshire Hotel casts a great
two-winged shadow over the intersection with its Roman arch and
ornate stonework, its ground level lined with shops and a restaurant
run by a Wolfgang Puck. Across from that is the Tiffany shop, above
which a stone man holds a clock on his shoulders.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A freestanding sign in one nearby street
rehearses, very politely, the measures California has taken to
prevent contagion and that Beverly Hills requests those outside to
wear face coverings at all times. Courteous. It’s got to say
something important about a place when the signs are polite. Someone
may find someday that the word <i>please </i>on public signage raises
real estate values.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There’s no one around. And it’s really a shame
these shops are closed, as I would like to do some shopping. One
place called Agent Provocateur, whose window features mannequins
wearing lingerie and climbing gear, seems especially appealing, as I
cannot think of a more innovative way to scale a rock wall than in
frilly underthings.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Beyond, a rogue’s gallery of upscale boutiques,
some public sculpture on the sidewalk with plaques admonishing
pedestrians not to play on them: more shops, more shops, more shops,
more shops. Up ahead, an end to the shops as evidenced by the
sky-high line of palm trees.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Actually it’s Will Rogers Memorial Park. A
plaque there gives this history of the park—it was once part of the
front lawn of the Beverly Hilton, became the city’s first municipal
park in 1915, and took Rogers’s name in 1959—and names him indeed
as a man who, through his fame and community spirit, got named as the first honorary mayor of Beverly Hills.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From there I go north along Richmond Avenue and
plunge into a leafy residential neighborhood, which in Beverly Hills
means something. Leafy neighborhoods here are not places where kids
play in the streets but forbidding rows of mansions each sequestered
in its security perimeter of tree-high hedges and trees in the form
of a peristyle, the effect being of an impenetrable wall, but also a
luscious landscape. </span></div>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Everything about the houses is hidden, except the
decorative stone bowls that jut at regular intervals sometimes out of
the secrecy and into view. The Clampets lived around her somewhere;
they must have hated this sequestration.
</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2qR-upwQ3VI/XqzeHLGTUYI/AAAAAAAAEkw/DudRMzR0mSIFJrxyUU1oyIn4vNJ1TWpAwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/2017-02-04-LA-Tour-Beverly-Hills-Brody-Homes-Fleur-de-Lys-1024x768.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2qR-upwQ3VI/XqzeHLGTUYI/AAAAAAAAEkw/DudRMzR0mSIFJrxyUU1oyIn4vNJ1TWpAwCNcBGAsYHQ/s320/2017-02-04-LA-Tour-Beverly-Hills-Brody-Homes-Fleur-de-Lys-1024x768.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Then, suddenly, I’m on Benedict Canyon Road,
which draws me off my regular path and north toward the hills. The
name Benedict Canyon is familiar enough that I know I should follow
it. More mansions pass. This is what happens when you ride a bike in
Beverly Hills: you begin to understand that the Clampet mansion must
have been much smaller than they made it seem on TV.</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">From Benedict Canyon I take a slight detour onto
Shadybrook, and from there I get onto Cielo. And now I know what
sounded so familiar about the streets I have been riding. Cielo was
the street where one of the Manson murders took place. It’s not a
big street at all. Is it my imagination or does every house within
half a mile have a high-security fence around it?
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">For a moment I think I recognize the house from
books and news reports of that event, but only later do I research
and learn the house was demolished long ago, and occupied its own
private lane anyway. Just as well. I can think of a lot better things
to be mesmerized by than the site of a mass murder.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">I continue up Benedict Canyon for several miles to
where it executes a hairpin turn and trails off in an unwanted
direction. Here, my self-assigned point of turn-around, I set the
front wheel downhill and push off, beginning a long, gentle, roll
downhill at a constant 14 mph, along the hillside cottages and
mansions that have made this street famous.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">A gray haired man on a bike and in full rider
regalia wishes me good morning at a stop sign, then jolts up ahead
into the distance and disappears. Good morning, he said, the lingua
franca of basic courtesy, a sign of good breeding, which not even yet
has come under attack by the enforcers of lowest common denominator.
Maybe this is where I belong.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Certainly it’s very white, very waspy, very
clean and upstanding, which I know would get under my collar soon. But a nice place to visit: Wondrous
Wasp World, the best possible outcome of all those niggling mores
that you usually can’t stand. But isn’t it such a wasp way to
hate what makes you strong? Might there be a Norma Desmond out there
for me? </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LLq8hVg0Rkg/Xqze2e9WGNI/AAAAAAAAEk4/yTieIMOz3ugrAfhKI7W5aSCCkC5CxpGZwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/a0829134166_10-e1507494534644.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LLq8hVg0Rkg/Xqze2e9WGNI/AAAAAAAAEk4/yTieIMOz3ugrAfhKI7W5aSCCkC5CxpGZwCNcBGAsYHQ/s1600/a0829134166_10-e1507494534644.jpg" /></a></div>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Back in town and then out of it again, this time
to the south, I fetch up in Holmby Park, another outdoor locale which
by God’s grace and someone’s oversight remains open to all
comers. And there we all sit, on a luscious close-cut green sward of
a lawn, each group beneath its own tree, enjoying the cool shade
while watching the lambent sunlight. I could stay here for days. This
place is not so much rich, though it is that, as confident,
complaisant, powerful, a necessary concomitant to rich, a big brother
to rich.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And then, on the bike once more, around Playboy
Mansion which I didn’t even see, no bunnies out front flouncing or
bouncing or whatever bunnies do. The bunnies have all gone away, I
fear, now that Hef is not there to feed them. And so on back to the
car, which I reach in good order and without incident.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<br /></div>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">And that is that. I got nothing more from my day’s
expedition than the knowledge that I must change my life. It’s also
a good reminder to be grateful for the desirable things I have,
because God knows I won’t ever get to live in Beverly Hills.
</span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span>
<div class="western">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">
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a:link { so-language: zxx }</span></style><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-85016403070413010602019-10-20T12:36:00.001-07:002019-10-20T12:41:51.032-07:00<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/41817546-the-intelligence-trap" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="The Intelligence Trap: Why Smart People Make Dumb Mistakes" border="0" src="https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1539750711l/41817546._SX98_.jpg" /></a><a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/41817546-the-intelligence-trap">The Intelligence Trap: Why Smart People Make Dumb Mistakes</a> by <a href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19646154.David_Robson">David Robson</a><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
by David Robson <br />
Being of the journalist tribe, I’m often asked how to distinguish between real and fake news. My answer—be cautious, skeptical, intuitive, read several accounts and always consider the source—has so far never closed the issue with the triumphant thunder one might want. Author David Robson brings additional resources to the problem, certainly a key difficulty of our days, in the hopeful exploration of other forms of mental discernment not measurable by standard intelligence tests. He calls these powers extra-cognitive, and certainly they deserve attention if only to remind us how poorly we appreciate intellect when measured along a single lonely axis. Much of the book admires these other powers—intuition, curiosity, the vivisection of one’s own argument, courage, open-mindedness and others—and the people who study them. The research is assiduous; the case studies are excellent, and the hope is invigorated that one day we might all see through bunkum as easily as a window glass. At the end, though, it can still be argued that no acuities or mental combinations will ever unerringly tell truth from fraud, and we must always default to doing the best we can at the moment with whatever powers we can bring to bear. <br />
Still, the implication here that smug reliance on our logic and superior intelligence serves us poorly, and that finding truth today requires the fuller use of our powers, deserves as wide a distribution as this book can possibly get. It's one of those books that should be kept near, and read periodically, as a kind of hygiene, to soften the hardening of ideas.<br />
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<br />
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/review/list/6578075-rob">View all my reviews</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-28522560496650925792019-03-27T12:00:00.002-07:002019-03-27T12:10:12.619-07:00The Non-Banality of Evil<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RpeZnrWWfdc/XJvIKhCR9_I/AAAAAAAAERo/Dtz3ipO_sLovko-t_otaU1IqT2BmachBwCLcBGAs/s1600/40195485.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="298" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RpeZnrWWfdc/XJvIKhCR9_I/AAAAAAAAERo/Dtz3ipO_sLovko-t_otaU1IqT2BmachBwCLcBGAs/s200/40195485.jpg" width="125" /></a></span></div>
Morality never gets away completely clean. What's clear to others, especially later, by no means comes through in crystalline at the moment. Neal Storrs's new book, In Times of War, makes this abundantly clear. <br /><br />Daniel Levashonsky never intended to become an SS officer, never thought he could be. A Mennonite of German heritage in Palestine of the 1930s, Levashonsky slowly closes ranks with the Nazis as the result of other men’s ambitions and his own Christian imperative to free Russia of its anti-religious regime. But the grip of Fascism slowly forces him into horrific moral battles with himself, his loved ones, and the kind intentions shown to him, from which you can be sure that no contenders emerge in anything like tranquility. <br /><br /> Author Neal Storrs gives us a moral kaleidoscope of a tale about identity, the contest between love and duty, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Storrs admirably paints the moral confusion of the early Nazi juggernaut, while keeping his protagonist so righteously faithful to the Christian imperative as to be largely insensible to the horrors taking shape around him. <br /> <br />Except that Levashonsky is never exactly the good guy fighting evil from the inside. So bespattered with guilt is his bewildered journey that the hero emerges compromised enough to keep the moral questions alive long after the story ends, through enough twists and turns to addle even the fine Mercedes he drives through Berlin. All in all it's a wonderful and thought-provoking read. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /><br /> <br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">
</span></span></span><br />
<style type="text/css"><font size="3"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; direction: ltr; line-height: 115%; text-align: left; }</span></font></style><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-82710075862072609942017-10-02T12:11:00.004-07:002017-10-02T12:12:28.370-07:00The relative place of itOne broadcasts oneself as well as one can, though there can be too much of it. They’ve been predicting the demise of letters since a few days after they started. Waves cross the planet putting faces on every screen and voices in every speaker, while the slow reduction to language plods on, a marvel of inefficiency. These days speak for themselves, I’ll not compare them to others I found more comfortable. I speak only on behalf of friends; there weren’t any so close as those who appeared on paper. What remains now for these flags of truce, sent forth uncertainly into the world, but to see who wants peace, and how many? <div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-4155425173547070692016-11-30T11:07:00.001-08:002016-11-30T11:09:46.136-08:00How far you get
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<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
You
can ride a bike all year, of course, but snow is no fun. We decided
go to in October, early November, a not advisable time but not
completely inadvisable.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
day came at last, late October. Little Mighty, 25, arrived in
Philadelphia, with her shiny red 1965 Schwinn 10-speed girls’ bike,
all smooth and sprightly, with its upright shifters and brake
extenders on the handlebars and pants protection wheel on the
chainring. To this assemblage she had added some prim zip-up
saddlebags that carried everything she needed, which at this point
was about everything she owned. I had the Trek I had saved from the
dumpster and which had now carried me through a large chunk of the
west.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ultimately
Little Mighty was bound for Mexico, Ecuador and Columbia, but that
was later, after the bike ride. She was a svelte little dynamo who
gave an excellent impression of indifference when her clothing began
to fall off as she walked, and, as I found out, as steady under
duress as she was breezy, unwilling to notice inconvenience,
unwilling to notice even the most jarring discomforts.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
For
fun she volunteers as a farmhand in South America and for work she
cooks aboard tall ships. She had just spent two months sailing the
Pacific in a wooden ship and whipping up crew-jubilating meals out of
tumbleweeds. That is of course an exaggeration but not much. We are
both sailors, I am sorry to report.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
cast a doubtful look at her bike. Early in life it had probably never
taken its young owner farther from home than the corner store. It
looked clean and capable enough. But God save me from rookies. God
save me from riders who set out cross-country on a tank from Walmart
wearing sneakers and a 50-pound backpack. How much time would I spend
finding the shortest walkable distance to our destination after she
got too tired to pedal? Where would I find the numbers of local cab
companies? Who should I call when the emotional crisis occurred?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
got everything ready. Which direction should we go? South, of course.
Ever south. South toward the waning sun, to a destination still vague
but probably North Carolina.We set our caps south. We set everything
we had south. Everything but our sails. We needed a break from those.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And
so began the great No Pressure Tour, a vagueish sort of bike tour
starting in Philadelphia, featuring Little Mighty and myself. You
will not credit, reader, how two giant northeastern cities, connected
by highways, connected by bus schedules, and train schedules, and
flight plans, and gas prices, and weather patterns—you will not
credit how two giant northeastern cities might also be connected by
streets, ordinary streets that you might walk upon.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
they are. On streets, so it had been said, one may in fact travel
from place to place, indeed from city to city, without ever resorting
to that methamphetamine-with-rest stops that is the modern interstate
highway. It’s like walking around your block 90 or 100 times and
finding yourself in Chicago.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
set off from 30<sup>th</sup> Street Station and wound southwest
through streets that had once been the main gates into town, Grays
Ferry, Paschall, Lindburgh, Elmwood. This was the route George
Washington took when traveling from Mount Vernon to New York, on the
way to his inauguration. Brick town homes gave way to wooden
Victorian ones, and then to plain wooden ones. The level of repair
went from City Historical to Urban Neglect to Suburban Tidy. And so
the miles passed until we reached The John Heinz Wildlife Refuge,
that exuberant patch of wilderness beneath the main landing
approaches at Philadelphia International Airport.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And
then twisky-twee like a corskscrew we rode along the graveled paths,
with a wrong turn here and wrong turn there, marveling the luxuriance
of green just a javelin throw from Interstate 95, and the marshy
lowland that was the original landscape through much of the
northeast. We saw exotic birds in the swamps.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And
then back to the street, and so on down along the western side of the
Delaware River. We followed long streets of respectable residences,
giving way to light industrial roads. And then to Chester, where a
tunnel might be the best route through. Then we found a path along
the waterfront that took us through the old Chester Waterside Station
coal burning electric plant. It’s an office park these days, unless
the utility workers must all wear business suits now, because that’s
what we saw as we rode past: a complement of office workers in office
casual dress, relaxing and smoking on the great fortress causeways of
the power plant.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
missed our intended host and spent the night in chain hotel, a
neo-Greek sort of place that had everything of a classical nature
about it that could be rendered in cinder block. The night was
peaceful, though we were still somehow astonished by the
knowledge--the proof, now--that you can arrive at place without
getting into an automobile. It didn’t seem right. We felt like
cheaters. The staff were chirpy, happy and friendly.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Little
Mighty had brought her own computer, and we planned our next day’s
route, consulting everything the Internet could bring us. A good
breakfast next morning and then: South.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
rode past Newcastle and through Newark, then into Maryland, past
Elkton, past Northeast, much of this on a federal highway that by
some accident has wide shoulders. We finally got to some country
roads near the Susquehanna River and wandered northish to Perryville
and more chirpy happy friendly.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here
we settled in satisfied, and comfortable in knowing that for the
first time we had actually hit a target we aimed for. Once again the
free Internet brought us more possibilities than we knew how to use,
and for the next hours we planned exotic jaunts through Virginia by
way of Sacramento and Disney World. Later we walked the non-exotic
100 yards to Denny’s for dinner, then went to bed happy and woke up
to a driving rain.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here
it was. Rain. The make or break. The wheat from the chaff. The men
from the boys. The women from the girls. The parking lot splashed and
spattered with it. We knew what we had to do. There is only one thing
to do in a case like this. We went back to bed. And all day the rain
came down, heavy and thick. The rivulets ran in the gutters and into
the storm drains. For a while we paced. We checked Facebook 70 or 80
times. We texted friends. The day wore on.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And
then, next day, the rain had ended but puddles remained. Sunshine
struggled, struggled. In place of rain there was now a constant 20
knots of wind from our intended direction. Already the dead leaves
were flying off the maples and sycamores. Grasses bent horizontal.
Ah, well. Wind will not soak you or give you flu. Wind’s discomfort
lasts but a moment, unlike rain’s. (By this time our choices were
dwelling among the least hurtful terribles.)
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
suited up, executed the departure checklist I had written out the
previous evening after becoming exceeding wroth about losing my phone
charger, loaded the bikes and pedaled out. Our first job was crossing
the Susquehanna River, the only unrideable part of the trip.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On
maps and biking guides you will often find the assurance that,
despite Maryland’s tenacious resistance to letting cyclists pedal
across the river, several local bike shops will transport you, free
or cheap, with 48 hours’ notice.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But
faced with the prodigious fact of a long no-bikes-allowed bridge
whizzing with motor traffic, or a 40-mile additional upriver pedal to
an equally terrifying crossing of the Conowingo Dam, all that
bike-friendly help disappears. The bike shops have moved on. The help
lines to the Maryland Transportation Authority are dead. The MTA
agent at the bridge itself answers your question with a flat No, then
sends you for more help to a phone that rings forever. (It is ringing
even now.) The trains don’t accept bicycles; the buses don’t run
on weekends. All of this, plus rain, plus being too long indoors,
plus your dying phone, plus your lost phone charger and your new
bandana made of (you just realized) uncomfortable polyester, makes a
challenging day.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At
the Route 40 toll plaza we found no one to make big eyes at and
get sympathy from, as had been our primary plan. (Little Mighty is a
master at this.) A cop just then arriving told us we couldn’t
cross, as of course we knew. And so, the cab. The cab came directly,
a stationwagon, into which we squeezed our bikes—one longitudinal
in the bed, another sideways in the backseat—and ourselves—one
atop the other in the passenger seat—and prepared for the
impossible passage.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
driver vouchsafed to us the many great places we might go for a bite
or a sip, if we were inclined to abandon these ridiculous riding
plans, my god look at that wind. Where did we want to go, anyways?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
Bridge Diner, I said.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Doesn’t
exist anymore, he said. Gone.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Whatever
is left of the Bridge Diner, I said. The ruins of the Bridge Diner.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I
need an address, he said. There’s a Waffle House there.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
want to go to the Waffle House.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
They’re
building a Royal Farms where the diner was.</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Let’s
go to the Royal Farms.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Eight
minutes later we were across. Before we had unloaded our stuff a
cyclist dressed in foul-weather clothing screeched up and declared he
was glad to see someone as crazy as himself out in this wind. Where
did we intend to go?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
When
we told him he insisted we’d have no trouble. Insisted. Then he
screeched off. We found the streets our map wanted us to. The turning
cues seemed to correspond with our presumed direction. We got
rolling. Not 10 minutes later as we lay into the breeze whistling
through a housing tract a woman opened a window of her SUV and asked
if she could take us wherever we were going. Anywhere, she said. She
couldn’t stand the thought of riders out in this wind. By this time
we were making a solid 3 miles per hour, which meant only 12 more
hours of riding today. We thanked her and declined.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
At
the end of that street we turned left, somewhat off the main thrust
of the wind and gained speed, though every 200 feet another gust
smothered us to a stop. We could feel the bikes swerving and shying
with every puff. The traffic in its endless flight came up behind and
disappeared before. The shouldered highways gave way to unshouldered
ones. On.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Over
the hills, through the dips, the steady rush of traffic belittling
our plebeian little two-wheeled-pumping-of-the-feet transport. If we
amounted to <i>anything</i> in this world <i>we</i> would be in one
of those big cars. <i>We</i> would be whushing past those poor
suckers on bikes, those idiots too weak and poor to own an
automobile. What is a pansy tin machine like that, with less than one
horse of power, compared to the astronomical great power of an
august and magnificent internal combustion engine, with its spinning
fans and its harness of electric pulses and its thresh-work of
pounding pistons tuned to maximum force? What it a simple pedal
machine compared to tech-now-low-gee?
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We
made it finally to Monkton near sundown, the trees filtering the late
afternoon autumn light as we made the last turn into a road marked
with the sign of the farm Little Mighty had persuaded to let us stay.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Well,
that was the beginning. We split after Monkton. She got as far south
as North Carolina, where her boyfriend picked her up and took her to
Florida. I got to Baltimore, where I stayed with my brother and his
wife, and enjoyed the autumn colors, the landscape daubed with reds
and golds, and the presentiment of wood fires and apple cider.
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-22294079952660056002016-09-17T15:08:00.001-07:002016-11-30T11:13:10.775-08:00The importance of finding Ernest Ernest Hemingway came to Idaho first in the late 1930s, a guest of the developers of nearby Sun Valley Resort, then sporadically for the next 10 years, hunting along Silver Creek and the Sawtooth foothills. In the late 1950s he bought a house in Ketchum, and in 1961 died there, after two years reaping the rewards of a lifelong will to self destruction. The funeral was brisk, the burial local, the trout still ran and the geese still flew. But thus another place name went onto the map of literary reverence. <br />
<br />
I <a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QqMS42R5pig/V927ew2MLdI/AAAAAAAAA64/F9tBZXxGbHQbuGnrWxKnj4HRsY_uh44uACEw/s1600/0910161545a.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-QqMS42R5pig/V927ew2MLdI/AAAAAAAAA64/F9tBZXxGbHQbuGnrWxKnj4HRsY_uh44uACEw/s320/0910161545a.jpg" width="320" /></a>found his grave as easily as one finds the neat Ketchum Cemetery, near downtown, a gravely slab bearing his name and often littered with pennies and pens—which are in fact an error in the liturgy, for Papa used only no. 2 pencils. By such commonplaces is communion with greatness achieved. <br />
<br />
But the city nowhere advertises his last house's location, perhaps fearing a swarm of Papa wannabes, an invasion of acolytes, an asphyxia of aspirants. It is left to the cunning, the clever, the calculating, to find his house on their own. It is left to those with access to Google maps and a disinclination to ask the owners for a tour. Thus: <br />
<br />
It sits alone on a small hill, this house, as it did when Hemingway lived there, despite the dazzling wealth that has thrown up its idols nearby. It's sat empty for many years, the gossiping river running ceaselessly along its front, and is now maintained by the Nature Conservancy, who can't figure out what to do with it.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RnvOo_hR7Cg/V927fVfP2pI/AAAAAAAAA68/vPQ_MPBxOhwmiJcOKBzdbj-I9sjFVnvYACEw/s1600/Ketchum%2Bhouse.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-RnvOo_hR7Cg/V927fVfP2pI/AAAAAAAAA68/vPQ_MPBxOhwmiJcOKBzdbj-I9sjFVnvYACEw/s320/Ketchum%2Bhouse.jpg" width="320" /></a> I got to its driveway, with all the No Trespassing signs glinting nearby in the sun, yet with obviously no one near who could threaten me with jail—and decided not to go the whole way after all. Hemingway was in deep trouble when he lived here: depression, paranoia, attempted suicide, great physical pain, shock treatments at the Mayo Clinic, alcoholism of course. He took the final step with both barrels of his shotgun in the foyer. I didn't need to see the place to know the story. And I think: Which is more worthy of reverence, the life or the work? And how much may they be separated? <br />
<br />
To my friend Sterling I recommended an old <a href="http://www.esquire.com/entertainment/books/a37609/ernest-hemingway-grave/" target="_blank">Esquire piec</a>e by a guy who found himself on this same pilgrimage I was. Sterling came back at me angry that, in the piece, Norman Mailer gets to call Hemingway a coward. If I want to know Hemingway, Sterling says, I should read his short stories, The Sun Also Rises, the hunting scenes in Green Hills of Africa and any of his journalism. <br />
<br />
“That writing is all that you need to know about Ernest Hemingway,” Sterling says. <br />
<br />
Yeah, maybe. I wish I it was all I did know. And I wish that my reverence might someday learn to be careful. <br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-24097411709123901782016-09-12T15:04:00.000-07:002016-09-21T16:00:19.521-07:00The Sawtooth Tour<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<style type="text/css">p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; direction: ltr; color: rgb(0, 0, 10); line-height: 120%; text-align: left; }p.western { font-family: "Calibri",sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; }p.cjk { font-family: "Noto Sans CJK SC Regular"; font-size: 12pt; }p.ctl { font-family: "FreeSans"; font-size: 12pt; }a:link { }</style>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YpI1klbTIOw/V93xSozZAzI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/9vBp-DOlfn8az_wRTLaFdOJPMMkHVMtJwCLcB/s1600/6082575823_8b840841f3_o.jpg__1072x0_q85_upscale.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YpI1klbTIOw/V93xSozZAzI/AAAAAAAAA7Y/9vBp-DOlfn8az_wRTLaFdOJPMMkHVMtJwCLcB/s320/6082575823_8b840841f3_o.jpg__1072x0_q85_upscale.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sawtooth NRA, not actual size</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Sawtooth
National Recreation Area. It contains mountains, it contains forests,
it contains broad sweeping pine-blanketed plains rising curvingly up
to white blasted crags blazing in the sun and rocky overhangs with
snow on the upper ranges. And then miles after miles of sloping pine
forest, lonely forests of trees, until you come to a lake, several
miles off the highway and circled by a pavement, with clear opaline
water and reflecting yet another stark asteroid of a mountain on the
other side. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Every
50 or so miles, there is a little grocery and service station built
of rustic boards, until you get to Stanley, pop. 258, where there is
also a restaurant. In Idaho City, pop. 63, there are also genuine
frontier storefronts with long wooden sidewalks before them, and a
picturesque gold rush cemetery. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d-CrokIMEvE/V93z461HB9I/AAAAAAAAA70/X8DFgcsUg88W6zQl04eHp1b9G48Z2MBEwCLcB/s1600/WP_20160903_13_30_03_Pro.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-d-CrokIMEvE/V93z461HB9I/AAAAAAAAA70/X8DFgcsUg88W6zQl04eHp1b9G48Z2MBEwCLcB/s320/WP_20160903_13_30_03_Pro.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kurt, Mark and Kate, in a rare stationary moment</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
started from Boise and rode 42 miles south, to Melba, toast capital
of the west, then an additional 10 miles to a place called
Celebration Park. My three teammates put distance between themselves
and me, but we all flew along, with Idaho state flags flying </span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">above
</span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">our
machines. </span></span>
</div>
<br />
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
park, a state park, contained petroglyphs and other items of
archaeological interest which you could </span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">view
</span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">from
a trail that wound among them. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
second day we followed an ancient still-elevated rail bed out of
camp, across an old train bridge and on through the country until we
reached the barbed wire barricade. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Advance
notice of this obstacle, stretched </span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">defiantly
</span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">across
the right-of-way, had come to us before the ride in an email message
from the route planner, to whom we swore left and right it would not
hinder us a fig. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I
had occasion to wonder at this certainty, as we handed our entire
royal caravan—three recumbent trikes, a bicycle and trailer, 10
stuffed panniers, coats, helmets, cameras, water bottles, pumps,
sunglass cases, all held aloft--over the dangerous wires and to a
resting place further along the railbed as we shimmied and
jiggy-footed trying not to stumble down the slope. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">What
we hadn't seen coming—what we had reason to believe would not
come—was the screaming man issuing from his trailer down the way to
command our immediate return from whence we came. He seemed to be
quite agitated. He directed us to just turn around and go back, just
turn around or we would go to jail. Clearly this was the biggest
thing that had happened to him all week. From his trailer he began to
make his way over the scrub toward us. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VKXxZsdLlz8/V930SJTjrVI/AAAAAAAAA74/Q1Wf5q9qKIMKwAPCguh0sB12p0Z7tRIbgCLcB/s1600/WP_20160904_09_49_23_Pro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VKXxZsdLlz8/V930SJTjrVI/AAAAAAAAA74/Q1Wf5q9qKIMKwAPCguh0sB12p0Z7tRIbgCLcB/s320/WP_20160904_09_49_23_Pro.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;">The railroad bridge, just before <span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;">The Encounter</span></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Now,
this was not the time to debate the ascendancy of property rights
over the needs of poor touring pilgrims like ourselves; nor did we
think it quite politic to ask how any private person could </span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>own
</i></span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">a
railroad right-of-way. Or how we were supposed to effect a rapid
escape with that barbed wire behind us. Or, for that matter, who he
was and how was he able to throw us out. (</span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Private
property it may have been, I thought, but my attention is private
also and he was trespassing on it.) </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
thing to do, as Katie said later, is de-escalate. Kurt began this by
assuring the man we were leaving, yes we were leaving, yes, leaving
right now, just this minute. Meanwhile, the last of the party were
joining us from the rear. Just turn around and go back, the man said,
or you go to jail. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Yes,
thank you, we are leaving. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
kept going. In the direction we had been going. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
man disappeared into his trailer, probably to get his gun. We were
making steady progress down the road, which had become a driveway, a
private driveway, upon which we were making highly illicit and
probably immoral passage, toward the county highway just beyond. Four
minutes later a frantic woman in a white Lexus came screaming up. She
was slender and white and burning with the kind of rage that can only
result from the secret belief that the world intends to destroy your
flowerbeds.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Katie,
the designated de-escalator, leaned into the woman's window and began
emitting soothing tones. Her husband Mark stood by as diplomatic
backup. Kurt and I watched. A minute later a 60-ish western-looking
man went whizzing by on an ATV, trying to head us off at the pass. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">More
soothing sounds. In the car, the woman's voice had come down half an
octave. She had grandchildren on those grounds she was saying, and
they couldn't have just anyone going through. Sixty feet away Kurt
rolled his eyes. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
got past that obstacle and down the road, down the long road. Night
Two brought us, </span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">after
a day of intermittent rain,</span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
to a state park called Bruneau Dunes which, despite this being Labor
Day, was about half occupied. The park featured giant sand mountains
that brooded over the little camp ground like a sky full of stars.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">That
evening we attended a lecture and slide show by a “UFO-ologist”
in the park's observatory, and learned among much else that: </span></span></div>
<ul>
<li>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
US government has for many years suppressed information about our
frequent visits from space beings; this information has included the
unbelievable sightings, witnessed by our astronauts when traveling
in space, of space vehicles and alien structures built on the moon. </span></span>
</div>
</li>
</ul>
<ul>
<li><div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gG602y-yNoo/V932ARYmD6I/AAAAAAAAA8c/zaLRwbwdW08sDCfNiZoO0FkjIy9K3jecQCLcB/s1600/Alien-Autopsy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-gG602y-yNoo/V932ARYmD6I/AAAAAAAAA8c/zaLRwbwdW08sDCfNiZoO0FkjIy9K3jecQCLcB/s320/Alien-Autopsy.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
government is itself in possession of a planet-hopping spacecraft,
built using</span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">technology reverse-engineered from UFOs, along with
several secret places on earth that serve as bases for this vehicle.</span></span></div>
</li>
</ul>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.5in;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
have been a number of UFO crashes, all well and carefully
documented, on US soil. </span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
government won't tell you about them, though.</span></span></div>
</li>
</ul>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0.5in;">
</div>
<ul>
<li>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">We
have also, it goes without saying, many bodies of aliens now
preserved, and have given medical attention to alien survivors of
UFO crashes. </span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span>
</div>
</li>
<li>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">A
UFO researcher has initiated a program allowing all this
information—including suppressed astronaut testimony--to be freely
disclosed by those who until now have been sworn to keep mum. The
researcher got the green light for this project when he wrote to
Bill Clinton saying he would do it and got no response from the
president saying he couldn't. </span></span>
</div>
</li>
</ul>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">There
was much more UFO information on offer, but Kurt and I fell asleep in
our chairs during the last half hour. During this time it was obvious
that Kurt's brother Mark was not in attendance, as we heard no one's
head exploding, as Mark's would have. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Night
Three, after another 60 miles: an empty RV park in Gooding, ID, where
we slept amid the great empty cement pads designed to support large
recreational vehicles.</span></span></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Night
Four, after yet another 60 miles, we got back to civilization again,
to Hailey, where Mark's daughter and son in law fed us, slept us, and
got us warm again. At dinner I announced complete satisfaction with
my riding so far, and therefore my intention to quit here and remain
satisfied with myself, rather than to become angry or frustrated or,
perhaps, dead. Hailey had been planned as one of the possible
quitting spots, so this was no problem. And Kate was also quitting
here to go visit a new grandchild. I would ride one more day with
Kurt and Mark and then return alone to Hailey the following day. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">And
</span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">so
</span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">it
happened. </span></span><span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Three
of us rode next morning to a campsite called Easley Hot Springs, and
there spent a pleasant evening fretting about bears and hoisting our
food into the trees; and next morning it was 27 degrees and my toes
were frozen together. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wKaY9fSbKJQ/V93yPB-IRGI/AAAAAAAAA7k/SnFFlNXr2EgEi3VPiCvbA8JDNGEtIqugwCLcB/s1600/Idaho%2Bcity.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-wKaY9fSbKJQ/V93yPB-IRGI/AAAAAAAAA7k/SnFFlNXr2EgEi3VPiCvbA8JDNGEtIqugwCLcB/s320/Idaho%2Bcity.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Idaho City</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">This
and a swelling achilles tendon brought home the wisdom of leaving
early. Kurt and Mark continued on for another hundred miles, most of
it uphill—I met them later near Idaho City. Meantime I rode
downhill back to Hailey, stopping along the way to take pictures of
trout streams and mountains. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "bitstream charter" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">So
there it was: 311 miles in six days. Nothing for some folks but at
least respectable for a cripple and invalid. </span></span>
</div>
<div class="western" style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--jjrMuG8keI/V93y1_SFzwI/AAAAAAAAA7o/4HJt59Qs-hUREr7_Zm53uoU7c06IQcd1QCLcB/s1600/Redfish.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/--jjrMuG8keI/V93y1_SFzwI/AAAAAAAAA7o/4HJt59Qs-hUREr7_Zm53uoU7c06IQcd1QCLcB/s320/Redfish.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-83556199772391273752015-09-13T11:52:00.001-07:002015-12-08T16:59:02.811-08:00Shiloh<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aP5wk4104KI/VfXFOhIDy3I/AAAAAAAAAlY/m26r1t9lYqI/s1600/77da32f78efb107e7bbeb30a8a746483.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aP5wk4104KI/VfXFOhIDy3I/AAAAAAAAAlY/m26r1t9lYqI/s200/77da32f78efb107e7bbeb30a8a746483.jpg" width="200" /></a>I got to Shiloh after a long drive south from the interstate and deep into the
swamps of southwestern Tennessee. Miles and miles of trees, a clean,
no-shoulder highway, no evidence of traffic in the form of litter, here and
there a sign advertising Bubba’s Catfish Shack, and then, suddenly, a national
park, a huge swampy, piney, national “military” park with probably more
alligators than people in it, filled with ravines, bayous, creeks, humpy ridges
and a damp forest floor raising a fog of
steam. Very few people there, the Visitor Center parking lot was almost empty,
perhaps because the heat is stifling. It’s only slightly less deserted there
now than in 1862, except the roads that the Union army hoped to travel further
south are now the paved route of the driving tour. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-quu6lo9aX8k/VfXEWPkuqHI/AAAAAAAAAk4/CebXJpkESL0/s1600/20110321_ShilohNMP-8-S.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-quu6lo9aX8k/VfXEWPkuqHI/AAAAAAAAAk4/CebXJpkESL0/s200/20110321_ShilohNMP-8-S.jpg" width="200" /></a>The driving tour: a single car travels on that narrow
National Park Service pavement with the clean forest sweeping away, and what
looks like a widely spaced cemetery full of monuments distributed throughout.
Big ones, little ones, ornate ones, simple ones. Granite monuments marking this
or that headquarters, the end of this or that line, the place where 2100
federals surrendered, the location of this or that hurriedly placed battery.
The memorials of many different eras all share the space; hence you see markers
made of cannonballs and old cannons marking some spots(the oldest), then
rusting metal plaques marking others(the not-so-old), than fancy modern NPS
signs (the newest). Monuments mark the spots where important things happened or
resided-- for example, where William Wallace was mortally wounded, and where
Haith had his headquarters, and where the blue and gray lines first made
contact. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_5" o:spid="_x0000_s1028"
type="#_x0000_t75" alt="Buckland Camp.jpg" style='position:absolute;
margin-left:4pt;margin-top:1.3pt;width:120.75pt;height:161pt;z-index:3;
visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square;mso-wrap-distance-left:9pt;
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o:title="Buckland Camp"/>
<w:wrap type="square"/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lx_nRO46ugM/VfXEV3mK7qI/AAAAAAAAAks/NKJ-bCyXK8Y/s1600/Buckland%2BCamp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-lx_nRO46ugM/VfXEV3mK7qI/AAAAAAAAAks/NKJ-bCyXK8Y/s200/Buckland%2BCamp.jpg" width="150" /></a>Most
interesting to me, you have a sign--within a stone’s throw of little ramshackle
Shiloh church itself-- that marks the end of Buckland’s line. I saw this from
the car. Buckland was the brigade commander in which Amos Laymon’s regiment was
included. Amos was the brother of my great great grandfather, and Buckland was his brigade commander, part of Sherman's division. The sign sits at the corner of a parking lot and it’s hard not to
notice the wet path leading away from it into the woods. Which has to be
followed. Because if Buckland’s line ended there, and the confederates were
coming up from the south, than Amos’s regiment must have camped somewhere along
that path. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sure enough, I tramped into the woods and found markers/memorials
marking where the three Ohio regiments camped that made up Buckland’s Brigade,
including Amos’s. Getting better oriented I was able to see why those outfits
often turn up in histories of the battle. They were the closest to the enemy and
the furthest from safety. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BLPMhSNW-2I/VfXEWLXbo2I/AAAAAAAAAkw/P7rtjB4tSBw/s1600/0822151714.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BLPMhSNW-2I/VfXEWLXbo2I/AAAAAAAAAkw/P7rtjB4tSBw/s200/0822151714.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The leader of the regiment just to the left of Amos’s, a man
named Cockerill, tried repeatedly to make Sherman understand there was a crowd
of rebels before him, without success.
All three regiments got assaulted at 7 a.m., their breakfast uneaten,
and continued fighting until 10, almost surrounded, when one of the Sherman’s
staff ordered them back. Buckland himself was commended in Sherman’s report. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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o:title="0822151714"/>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]-->And
Amos was seriously injured, according to the roster of the 48<sup>th</sup>
Ohio. I don’t know how or where. He was 39 years old and soon went back to
Lynchburg, Ohio, where he had been recruited the previous October. He had boarded the
steamboat Empress in Paducah, Kentucky for the trip down, and made it his home
for 12 days until finally unloading at Pittsburgh Landing near Shiloh, then spread out into
the woods with his regiment to loaf and invite his soul, more than two miles
from the landing. It was all spring and songbirds until the morning of April 6.
The Battle of Shiloh was his first and only day of war.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I traveled further south to the town of Corinth, MS, whose
vital railroad junction had attracted so much union interest in the first
place. There’s a great interpretive center there, with cannons on display from
the battle, a research library, an allegorical fountain, a movie auditorium and
a bookstore. There too, I was one of about three patrons. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VUi8pmFI3d8/VfXEWpvZIOI/AAAAAAAAAk8/C7m8FIeryFY/s1600/third_photo_history.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="113" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VUi8pmFI3d8/VfXEWpvZIOI/AAAAAAAAAk8/C7m8FIeryFY/s200/third_photo_history.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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type="#_x0000_t75" alt="third_photo_history.jpg" style='position:absolute;
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o:title="third_photo_history"/>
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</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]-->The
town of Corinth itself, grand as it sounds, must be one of the saddest little
towns I’ve ever seen, even now. Never very big, it swelled to more than 40,000
after the battle and during the subsequent siege, most of these people wounded
or dying. Every building became a hospital, the water was foul, and disease was
rampant. During all this it was also the scene of two bloody battles, and upon
giving it up both armies burned it. I figured it had good reason to
be sad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But the railroad junction is still there. And a lot of
ghosts, I guess. You withdraw credulity when I mention ghosts, of course. But
standing in the middle of the woods by the 48<sup>th</sup> Ohio encampment,
miles from the nearest soul, I swore I smelled gunpowder.</div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-20894765548257466912015-07-17T12:16:00.001-07:002016-11-30T11:13:29.193-08:00Intelligent life in California<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Deserts are not just for recluses anymore. Nowadays,
entirely respectable people go there and rent houses and stay, and burn stuff,
and watch caloric waves shimmer off the desert floor, and feel rugged and hardy
and American, and drink a lot. You might have thought the desert was just for
coyotes and creepy lizards, but I’m here to tell you. Much of Los Angeles is
there, goes there every year, at least in the winter. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div align="right" class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VlwASI9Etas/ValQfQQ_yAI/AAAAAAAAAjs/jb1tJjld2fU/s1600/0615151856.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-VlwASI9Etas/ValQfQQ_yAI/AAAAAAAAAjs/jb1tJjld2fU/s200/0615151856.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I’m talking about the constellation of towns
near Joshua Tree National Park: Desert Hot Springs, Cathedral City, Twenty Nine
Palms, Yucca Valley City, Palm Springs, all of them partners-in-baking when the
calendar progresses past May. Bob Hope made Palm Springs famous, mostly for the
golf, I think. Dinah Shore, Gene Autry, the Rat Pack—the place has celebrity
credentials. I found it mostly walled golf courses interspersed with walled
condos and walled strip malls.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">One day I got taken out to a mystery location
in the Mojave Desert. Out we went to where the roads became rougher and
thinner, and the desert began to dominate again over the futile etchy-sketchy
byways of humankind. We went toward a destination my friend wouldn’t reveal, for
an event she wouldn’t describe, and an experience she couldn’t calculate.
Eventually, I realized why, as after I had it I couldn’t say much either.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jyo8d3ToKzk/ValQtF0r33I/AAAAAAAAAj0/2x76voEP_iM/s1600/Desert-Junk-11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="161" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Jyo8d3ToKzk/ValQtF0r33I/AAAAAAAAAj0/2x76voEP_iM/s200/Desert-Junk-11.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We entered a gate like one of the many along
those roads, opening to a property filled with superseded furniture, the bodies
of ancient automobiles, many of them bullet ridden, antique refrigerators,
antique freezers, skeletal old easy chairs, middens of colored bottles,
roadside signs that formerly stood before hotels, drive-in restaurants and summer
camps, forgotten children’s trampolines, the occasional jumble of go-kart and
minibike parts, and other sequelae of hobby enthusiasm gone amuck, all long
abandoned, all radiating slowly outward from the house in an ever-expanding
pool like an oil slick.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Except this property was clean and neat and
kind of enchanting. The parking lot was swept, small structures of neat
carpentry stood nearby. Even the ancient automobile bodies look scrubbed. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This was the surrounding ground of The
Integratron, which the signs there began to instruct us.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">There were neatly carpentered benches, a wall
of clean chalkboard with large cylinders of chalk waiting below, and a full
length mirror displaying the picture of you over the words You Are Here. There
was a cluster of hammocks beneath a gauzy shade, and free standing outbuildings
in warm colors. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z7O8gfnnYJI/ValQ02fgcCI/AAAAAAAAAj8/-FvGLYGLjiA/s1600/integratron.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Z7O8gfnnYJI/ValQ02fgcCI/AAAAAAAAAj8/-FvGLYGLjiA/s200/integratron.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">At the far end of the property was The
Integratron itself. It looks like an observatory, about 60 feet high, a big
white dome colored a metallic-looking white but in fact built of plywood and
other non-magnetic materials. This you learn when you see the pictures of it
under construction in the check-in office beside it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">What you also learn, reader--something I’ll
wager you didn’t know but not many people do in this age of distraction and
ignorance of our heritage. What you also learn is that the Integratron was one
of the first places on earth we made contact with the wisdom of other planets.
Since then, owing to its highly unique resonance and geological anomalies, it
has served as a place of cellular rejuvenation and the first stop in anyone’s education
wishing to prolong life indefinitely. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Again, reader, please don’t reproach yourself
for not knowing this; it’s rather poorly known, for whatever reason.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">This contact, I might as well tell you, was
made between an aerospace engineer from California in 1953, and a Venusian man
who was dressed in a very dapper one-piece gray body suit. The Venusian, whose
name was Solganda, told the engineer, whose name was George Van Tassle, how to
construct a building that would extend human life and enable time travel. It
would do a lot of other things, but unfortunately Van Tassle died before
getting it finished. Three sisters bought it 14 years ago and now it’s a
tourist attraction and—if you can believe this—recording venue for musicians.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xZi6AKkqy1E/ValQ6EigWoI/AAAAAAAAAkE/N4HUtt2t0e8/s1600/Integraton_interior_CA_t658.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="217" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xZi6AKkqy1E/ValQ6EigWoI/AAAAAAAAAkE/N4HUtt2t0e8/s400/Integraton_interior_CA_t658.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">We entered, on the ground floor, removed our
shoes, underwent ritual purification, endured a body search—actually I made the
last two up. But it did have the feeling of a preparation to enter holy space,
with its formal ablutions and suppression of hilarity. We went upstairs. There were
sleeping mats laid on the floor, and a series of bowl-looking things at one end
of the room. Signs asked us to not touch them, though we never thought of doing
so until we weren’t allowed. We lay down. A man began speaking. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">I have no doubt
he spoke English. But what he actually said I have no idea. He talked about
this location being at the intersection of three rivers beneath the earth’s
surface; and about how the height of the building is a number the reverse of
which is the exact coefficient of pi at sea level. He spoke of the 17 rafters
in the ceiling and their cosmic meaning. He spoke of cosmic meaning of every
last joint, and why it was titanically significant. The room was a superb place
for the “sound bath” he was about to perpetrate upon us, and we should be
prepared to experience, in sound, the exact vibrational level that was known to
rejuvenate human cells. It was all very mystical and numerological and, if you ask
me, more than a little psychotic. Yet it stands to reason that earthlings like
myself won’t understand these things. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">After he had professed this incoherent
scripture for 15 minutes, he began—I think he got a signal from someone in the
audience—to bow his bowls, and the meat of the experience was arrived at last. These
were quartz bowls, and when rubbed with a bow, made a rich and interesting
sound. We lay back and closed our eyes, and the capsule-like room that had been
built with the help of Venusians resonated with warm tones. The notes were
full, disarming, relaxing, sustained as long as the gusts of wind and steady as
the rock that produced them. I think I dozed off for a while. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">The thing wore on for about twenty minutes and
I cannot say that it—the sound bath/cellular rejuvenation/electrostatic
irradiation—was unpleasant. I didn’t snore and I didn’t laugh, and when the
whole thing was finished we wandered out further into the desert among the
scattered properties and scattered lives, and looked for somewhere to eat.</span></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-18651714760196969522015-07-13T11:54:00.002-07:002015-07-13T12:08:34.094-07:00Fragment From a Voyage <div class="MsoNormal">
We set out from San Pedro with a
boatload of Boy Scouts, and things went according to plan: Up to Smugglers Cove
on Santa Cruz during the day, around to Painted Cave next morning, back down
the other side in the afternoon. Nearing evening, we heard a distress call
coming from our intended anchorage. A boat had gone up on the beach and the
skipper was frantically calling for help. His words were poorly differentiated
but his tone sang through. Panic. No one, he would have acknowledged in a
calmer moment, could have appeared suddenly by his side, on an island 30 miles
at sea, at least an hour from the nearest tow boat, to stop his sailboat from
grounding higher on the beach with every breaker. After 10 minutes of shouting
to the Coast Guard, he had established that he and a crewmate were safe on the
beach, but their sailboat was grinding away in the surf, hard aground.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By this time we were opening the
cove in question, a 100 foot line of sand bookended by tumbled falls of
boulders, with the suggestion of a widening of the beach behind this landing.
It was in fact an attractive place for cruising sailboaters, who liked to
anchor there close enough inshore to relish the secret, empty beach. The first
mate peered through the binoculars and at last saw the boat, a big cruiser
whose distant mast swayed lazily in the swell. He didn’t see the former
occupants, but they saw us. The frantic voice haled us soon after we radioed
the Coast Guard of our proximity and readiness to help. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you the big white sailboat a
couple hundred yards out?” he said. The relief was already coming into his
voice. “Thank god.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our inflatable boat was speeding
shoreward. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you able to bring the others
aboard from the beach?” the Coast Guard asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We were. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Are you able to carry out these
operations without risk to yourself or your vessel?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We believed so.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We came to anchor. The next half hour we spent relaying
information from the beached boat to the Coast Guard as the beached captain had
only a handheld radio. We gave the vital information the Coast Guard always
gets in cases like this, and then stood by for further need. Though our
inflatable boat had stayed near the two men on the beach, eventually we
recalled him when it was clear that rescue boats were on the way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meantime the scouts had gone
swimming off the boat. And while they swam, and leapt, and swung from the
tacks, we observed while the rescue boat from Santa Barbara arrived, and
discussed with the stranded owner the cost of the salvage—as it was by now a
salvage operation and not a simple tow—and then labored mightily with his 400
horses to drag a 10 ton boat off the sand. It was a tricky job as the tide was
now falling and the next chance would be more than 24 hours away. But at last
he succeeded, a cheer went up from the deck of the Exy Johnson, and tower and
towed set off for home. For a moment before they left, a group of adults met at
our bow to watch the goodbye, and to bid farewell to the little train. But also
to possibly fend it off as it floated close.<br />
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NsIQhNfIJdg/VaQMFJDsTsI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/h-sqsnboLLk/s1600/10712369_958653510822666_4428148267052701988_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="" border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NsIQhNfIJdg/VaQMFJDsTsI/AAAAAAAAAjQ/h-sqsnboLLk/s320/10712369_958653510822666_4428148267052701988_o.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exy Johnson at Santa Cruz Island<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The scouts, who had encircled the
boat with all manner of aquatic capers, and mounted upon unsteady kayaks to
search for distant caves, now slowly returned aboard. The tacks were brought in
and restored to their rightful duties, likewise the rescue rings and floating
lines. The galley, already warm, heated up to business strength, and dinner
loomed ever closer. The first mate took the deck, and afterwards reported that
we had received a thank you from the Coast Guard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next morning we weighed at eight
and were out of soundings before breakfast was clear, turning 2000 and steering
for Isthmus Cove on Catalina. At 1330, the breeze finally stirring the ensign,
the squares all came up and the main went down. Our speed dropped from six to
under four, though it rose again as the day waned. We had never dropped the
main while running downwind and it came off well, the agile deckhand tip-toeing
forward on the boom guiding down the sail and the scouts folding it there as
neatly as they rolled their neckerchiefs.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But I fear that with so much
sailing talk the sensory parts of the thing, the <i>memorable </i>parts--the
smell of jasmine, the barking of sea lions, the white crash of breakers on
rocks, the peachy creamy morning of a deserted island cove—might be left
unnoticed. To show a fair picture of our lives, this will not do. So then, be
it known: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the approach to these islands,
they never simply appear. Rather, at some perfunctory point, oh, they are
there. They are a less vivid brightness against the horizon, a pale outline
between the sea and sky, a looming, a species of cloud. Many hours pass between
first awareness of them and the first meaningful assessment. After a long time
in the back of consciousness, thoughts turn at last away from the stowage of
deck stuff and overhauling the ground tackle, and, once again, to them, to
those sudden great presences-out-of-nothingness. Now regions of color are
discernible, tan fields of sun-baked island grass, brown ledges of igneous
rock, and lighter brown cliffs reaching straight upward from the ocean. Withal
there is now a heaviness to the view in that direction, a heavy stolidity to
what before was empty as ether.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Moving closer you begin to feel
the mass of the land, like an object of gravity in blank space. Now the froth
and cream of surf appears as a changeable white line at the bottom. Boulders of
blue-gray jut up from the surf. Seabirds wheel above the worried shores,
darting in and out among the wet boulders. Browner tufts of scrub bushes and
trees populate the hillsides, with here and there a scar of ripped earth where
a crag or promontory fell anciently into the sea. The outline of the land
describes a sudden, thrusting aspiration skyward from the ocean, and among the
sea caves at water level you hear the roar of crashing currents against the
rocks and the voices of seals. </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-15092735185512901382015-04-11T20:16:00.001-07:002015-04-11T20:16:38.143-07:00The Drumming Life <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I've really suffered no lingering effects
from being a drummer.</span>
<br />
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">Eh?</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">WHAT?</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">You'll have to talk louder if you expect me
to hear you. I was saying I've suffered
no lingering effects from being a drummer most of my natural life - though
it's pretty weird seeing "drummer" and "natural life" there
in the same sentence
like that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">The truth is, I was a drummer for many years
and I'm here to tell you that all
that stuff you've heard about drummers being users of major hallucinogenic drugs
is pure baloney. In fact it's a GIANT CHARTREUSE BALONEY, and it's humming
"Somewhere Over the Rainbow"!</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">Drummers are just a little offbeat, that's
all. This is because the constant
subdividing of time actually severs the brain fibers by which one thought
is linked to another, with the result that drummers are very good at misunderstanding
everything in great detail.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">You folks who have some connection to
drummers, such as a parent-child or other
professional relationship, know what I mean.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">And you know the next thing I'll say about
drummers - the most salient and important
thing that you could all just scream out in unison: Drummers must tap on
everything! (All heads nod rapidly.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>There is no object in the world, anywhere,
any time, that will not be drummed
upon by a drummer, if it can be reached. There is no object, however rough,
ugly, moldy or covered with insect carcasses, that will not be given at least
and experimental roll in passing, if not a full-blown Carl Palmer solo</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">with
two-minute bass drum roll and gong hammering.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">And you know how this can lead to trouble,
such as when your drummer goes to
church, and all heads are bowed, and a persistent noise begins to fill the silence,
emanating from your bench.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">"What is that?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">"What is what?"</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">"That tapping."</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">"Tapping? That just happens to be
'Channel One Suite' by Buddy Rich!</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">"Well stop it!"</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">"But I'm not even to the cymbal
work."</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">Yes, it gets annoying. But, looked at
another way, it's at least excusable: Drumming
is a drummer's basic mode of interaction with the world. Newton saw a world of mass and velocity,
Einstein of light and energy. But drummers
know the world only as rhythm and tone. Freud showed us the personality
consisting of Id, Ego and Superego. In drummers there is a fourth component:
walking bass.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">In the long run I suppose that drummers are
more than offbeat. Maybe through
their constant tapping they're trying to syncopate with the Rhythm that
holds us all together. Maybe, deep down, they hope we'll all get in touch with
the same beat. There are worse hopes, it seems to me.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";">(Tappitta tap tap tap...)</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "MS Mincho";"></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-89001993132234047562015-03-10T12:17:00.004-07:002015-03-10T13:08:23.272-07:00The Fighting Shy Rules of Stuff <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<ol start="1" style="margin-top: 0in;" type="1">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-81eUH0JWDrA/VP9NxS_M7KI/AAAAAAAAAiY/n5SO9U9WLWU/s1600/clutter-image.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-81eUH0JWDrA/VP9NxS_M7KI/AAAAAAAAAiY/n5SO9U9WLWU/s1600/clutter-image.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">The
acquisition of stuff must be monitored with vigilance, and whenever
possible avoided.
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">It is
perfectly acceptable, and better than acceptable, to diminish your load of
stuff periodically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">You
usually don’t need to buy something to solve a problem. This statement is
necessary as thoughts of buying are almost a reflexive reaction to any new
problem faced in daily life, whether a rusty chain (buy some oil) or a
fresh new anxiety (pay a therapist).</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">The
urge to buy can usually be satisfied through circumvention, through making
the thing wanted, for example, or renovating an old one, or borrowing one,
or finding a lay alternative, rather than by buying new. The desire for a
particular experience is often construed in the imagination as a desire to
buy, probably because buying a thing, for so long associated with
enjoyment of the thing by <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">preceding</i>
it, has come to be imagined as the enjoyment itself. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Yet, with
very few exceptions, the enjoyment of new acquisition soon wears off, and
the soul returns to the humdrum quotidian. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">The
price of an object seldom includes—as it should when making the purchase
decision--the cost of storing the item for years, the commensurate loss of
living space, the psychological toll of schlepping it around, the
embarrassment of seeing it sit idle, the worry of finding a big enough
place to hold it, and others that should be obvious to the reader.</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">The
accumulation of many possessions diminishes the appreciation of few. One
faces a choice: Many and worse or fewer and better. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-izAar_J1R2E/VP9PFSm5LsI/AAAAAAAAAik/8ITWTAn0Cr8/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-izAar_J1R2E/VP9PFSm5LsI/AAAAAAAAAik/8ITWTAn0Cr8/s1600/images.jpg" height="133" width="200" /></a></div>
</li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">Love
of less can be cultivated, is nobler in spirit, and cheaper. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">In
modern life, very few tools—<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i>
few tools—are truly necessary to perform the tasks of daily living. What
tools are not possessed can often be improvised. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">A borrowed
item is a more efficient item, as because it is used by more users it is
more often used. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">A
truly needed and not-to-be-borrowed item can be purchased with others and
shared in a group. </li>
<li class="MsoNormal" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in;">The
concept of private property is not considerably diminished by the loss of
exclusivity. That is to say, you don’t lose possession of something
because others get to use it. It is no less your possession simply because
you have lost the exclusive use of it. </li>
</ol>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: .25in;">
Conclusion: The theory of private
property is a powerful, a civilized, and a not-to-mention necessary idea. But
it can be taken too far. </div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-43013930322032001922015-01-25T13:18:00.003-08:002015-01-25T13:24:44.836-08:00More Tips for Happy Living<br />
<h3>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The Way of the Superior Man, A Spiritual Guide to Mastering the Challenges of Women, Work, and Sexual Desire </span></span></h3>
<h4>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">By David Deida</span></span><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></h4>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Debates will never end about what’s right behavior in
love. Answers will always be contested, proposals always countered,
disagreements always rise. But it always helps if when you fight you sound like
a new-age troubadour. </span></span><br />
<div class="MsoBodyText">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Here we have <i>The Way
of the Superior Man, A Spiritual Guide
to Mastering the Challenges of Women, Work, and Sexual Desire</i>, talking about What Women Want in a
way that would lead to violence at cocktail parties. You know the talk: When
women say this they really mean that. You want to respond to her this way but
you should really respond that. Dangerously general statements, you see. But
because they sound so Jungian and mytho-poetic here, they seem to work. They
seem to get away with it. Thus: </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“A man shouldn't tolerate bitchy and complaining moodiness
in his woman, but he should serve her and love her with every ounce of his
skill and perseverance. Then, if she cannot or will not open in love, he might
decide to end his relationship with
her, harboring no anger or resentment.” </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or: </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">“The feminine is the force of life. The more
masculine a man is, the more his woman's
feminine energy (as opposed to other qualities) will be important to him.” </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Because I am long out of school and far past
concern for logical rigor I will skip the griping, and only say what I often
say in cases like this: These ideas are interesting whether or not they are
true. Meanwhile they might be fun to try.
</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS",sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">
</span></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-21171765559883320332014-10-17T17:11:00.000-07:002014-10-17T17:13:07.131-07:00Know your facts, then distort 'em as you please <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<![endif]--><span style="font-family: Sylfaen;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Random notes on Bill Bryson. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Bryson manages to be
suspenseful and desultory at the same time, something not many thoughtful people
would ever strive for. He relates the history of a certain common home
feature—quite rivetting in the telling, actually--by first emphasizing the
strange niche in his hallway wall, a niche clearly not part of the original
house, because the object it was designed to hold did not exist in 1765. We
don’t learn he’s talking about the telephone until many pages later, after the
suspense has gotten heavy. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">Then we turn to Alexander
Graham Bell and his odd story, and then to his assistant Thomas Watson, and his
even odder story, and then to the reason why Bell didn’t have his invention
stolen from him by his competitors, as happened so often, and then how the
telephone was designed, and then why there are letters on the dial, and so on.
There is apparently no guiding principle at work, but a smoothness in segueing
between nuggets of interest. In some cases there is not the faintest causal
connection between his contiguities. There is danger in this, of course. One is
led almost to infer a chain of causality from the the chain of events, as if
the events actually unfolded in the order Bryson relates, and not the order he
has chosen to enliven his story. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;">I have caught Bryson in
some stretchers. In The Lost Continent, an account of his driving tour of
America, in the section where he visited Philadelphia, he threw down scorn about
the place that stood out in a book already wretched with it. He was describing
the block in town that had been consecrated to the memory of Franklin—a section
of Market Street, where Franklin’s old print shop still stands, and where the
outline of his house, long since demolished, has been rendered in tubular
steel. Almost every tourist in Philadelphia visits the place. There’s a museum
devoted to Franklin there, and a Post Office that still handles mail, where
Franklin’s signature forms the cancellation mark. That’s where he said he was,
anyway. The problem was, he was describing Franklin Square, a rundown and
derelict old square several blocks away, where the west end of the massive Benjamin
Franklin Bridge comes to earth, and where weeds grow, and debris drifts, and a
general air of abandonment and decay makes this the least congenial spot in Old
City. Whether he knew he was in the wrong place or not is a good question. It
makes the difference whether we should call him a fibber or just plain dense.
In any event he did not concern himself to learn why, in a place where it was
advertised he would find a museum, a print shop and a post office, he found
only trash and desolation. Only very accomplished writers have this kind of
privilege.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-76256366946537498502014-09-25T13:45:00.001-07:002014-09-25T13:47:28.023-07:00And Those Who Study History Are Doomed to Misconstrue It <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span><br />
<a href="https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/17707022-how-should-we-live" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">H<span style="font-size: small;">ow Should We Live?: Great Ideas from the Past for Everyday Life</span></span></span></a><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span>
<br />
<div class="stacked" id="bookAuthors">
<span class="by smallText">by</span>
<span itemprop="author" itemscope="" itemtype="http://schema.org/Person">
<a class="authorName" href="https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1171994.Roman_Krznaric" itemprop="url" target="_blank"><span itemprop="name">Roman Krznaric</span></a></span> </div>
<br />
It’s tempting to say—so I’ll go ahead and say it—that this is one of the first bold thrusts of a no-doubt-soon-to-be-popular kind of thinking, and we shouldn’t carp that it grows straight out of self-help literature. I’m talking about “lifestyle philosophy,” the attempt to find a way of living, though it be unconventional, that maximizes personal fulfillment and remains friendly to the planet. <br />
<br />
Lifestyle philosophers—god forgive my language—lifestyle philosophers go beyond your typical self-help fare—remain positive, work and play well with others, exercise frequently—to question why we might wish to follow this advice—to ask, indeed, if it be the best advice after all. <br />
<br />
A lifestyle philosopher is willing to question certain always-unquestioned premises—more is better, easier is better, faster is better, a rewarding job is naturally the best way to spend one’s life, entertainment is the best recreation—and, after a gentle tap with a hammer, knock them to the ground. Lifestyle philosophy promises the twilight for some very popular idols--if anyone takes it seriously. And it is not stamped out by the police. <br />
<br />
So you will find nowhere a list of bullet points saying smell this or eat that. Or reach your target weight by June. Or smile as you claw your way to the top. Instead you will find discussion, always interesting though sometimes off track, that serves as prelude to the hints he offers for living a richer life. The suggestions he offers, I have no doubt, will provide a rich trove of new possibilities to those unsatisfied with their current lot, and will no doubt go down in the annals of lifestyle philosophy when such annals come to be written. (I suggest writing them in pencil.)<br />
<br />
To name a few:<br />
<br />
• Try to lessen the “tyranny of the eye,” and develop the other senses. This will bring a fuller love of that ambrosia of life we so often quaff without tasting. <br />
<br />
• Carefully evaluate the place of market activities in your life, including paid employment. We all believe that time is money, that time is wasted if not exchanged for some improving medium, such as cash. At least we act as if we do. But this concept has captured us only very recently. Before the Industrial Revolution self improvement had nothing to do with labor, or money accrued. Perhaps a better quality of life is available to those who search this question. <br />
<br />
• Give your traveling a deliberate meaning. Don’t be in thrall to your guidebook. Travel in the guise of a nomad, a pilgrim, an explorer. Krznaric offers suggestions how to do this, but the baseline intention is to add a spiritual component to your journeys.<br />
<br />
“We ought to spend time travelling, giving ourselves enough headspace for contemplation and going at a sufficiently slow pace to appreciate the beauties and sorrows of the landscape, whether it is a mountain range or an inner-city slum. Forget the car: put on some straw sandals and start walking under an open sky.”<br />
<br />
• Be brave enough to challenge your beliefs. As Nietzsche said, it’s nothing to have the courage of your convictions; what takes courage is to attack your convictions—an edict this book clearly takes to heart. <br />
<br />
• Reject the social norms and develop your own perspective on the art of living. <br />
<br />
• Find satisfaction in doing more things for yourself. In other words, be creative where you can. Cooking, for example, is a great channel of creativity and a means of self expression. And it hasn’t been taken out of the individual’s hands by an industry.<br />
<br />
“Creativity does not require the bestowal or inheritance of genius. Above all it requires the self-confidence to believe that we are capable of finding ways to express our uniqueness.” <br />
<br />
• Bring the shrouded aspects of life—in other words, death—into the light of day. Why can’t funerals be as creative as marriages? Why can’t we develop our own rituals of death to substitute for the festival approach to death that is now in steep decline? <br />
<br />
It’s not difficult to range Krznaric’s book among others Instructions For a Happier Life. The difference is, he claims history as his justification. And I’m not sure it works. <br />
<br />
I am all in favor of sleuthing out how civilization has stolen a person’s means, and eventually his desire, for expression. Commerce has co-opted the creative. Singing in public is now rarely done except before a karaoke machine. The creativity once exhibited at Halloween within living memory been replaced by a shopping opportunity. But how history can justify personal behavioral changes--how vast chronicles of the political and military movements of a people can suggest one small twitch for modification—goes beyond me. One might as well say history justifies dumping sewage in streams<br />
<br />
Nevertheless, Krznaric is onto something big. He has opened some big questions it behooves all of us to ask. How many of our social conventions disrupt the quality of our lives? How much of what we’re taught isn’t true? Can we reject these unquestioned conventions and live better? Most important, he has rescued history from inclusion in that squash-all-debate refrain about how, no matter how awful it is now, in the past it was worse. <br />
<br />
As Krznaric shows, it often wasn’t. For that we owe him a lot. <br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-57879729854948403792013-06-26T02:37:00.000-07:002013-06-26T02:38:09.911-07:00Manly Men Doping Around <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/43049.The_Sea_Wolf" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="The Sea Wolf" border="0" src="http://d.gr-assets.com/books/1348168536m/43049.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/43049.The_Sea_Wolf">The Sea Wolf</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1240.Jack_London">Jack London</a><br />
<br />
I like Jack London. I really do. But sometimes you gotta wish he paid closer attention to what he was doing. <br />
<br />
The Sea Wolf is supposed to be a sea tale, a kind of Moby Dick with the focus on Ahab. And it works, to a point. To a very limited point. This Ahab happens to be "materialist," in the language of the early 20th century--meaning he doesn't care much for deep thought and sentiment and stuff that can't be measured. If Ayn Rand had been to sea she might have come up with this character, Wolf Larsen. As it is, he's disjointed composite of Howard Roark, Gordon Gecko and a poor understanding of Nietzsche's superman. He takes what he can get, kills when he can, cares nothing for convention, for morals, for "sentiment," as he calls it. He is strong and intelligent. <br />
<br />
We meet him after the narrator, a literary critic named Humphrey, falls off a ferry and gets rescued by him in his seal-hunting schooner, the Ghost. Of course, a man like Wolf Larsen probably wouldn't rescue anyone just to save a life, but he needs a foil, someone to banter with. Humphrey provides that. <br />
<br />
I won't go further with the plot, except to say it is as unbelievable as any you will ever see. I would rather talk about London's peculiar style in this work. Somebody needs to. <br />
<br />
There is hardly a page in The Sea Wolf where the author does not botch a decent effect by undermining it with some contrary idea a little later. There is hardly a page where a good description is not negated later by a poorly chosen and mitigating word. I call it inattention.<br />
<br />
In Chapter 9, for example, we are told that Mugridge, the Cockney cook, is a coward, shortly later that he is brave. His was “the courage of cowardice,” I kid you not. His intimidation of Humphrey by sharpening a kitchen knife in his presence is "ludicrous"—until a few lines later when it is "serious". He is far too timid to actually use the knife, but this very timidity might prompt him to do it. A paragraph later, when he stabs another man rather than Humphrey, who had been the object of his wrath, his face is livid with fear and so he becomes—I am not making this up—domineering and exultant. <br />
<br />
“The psychology of it is sadly tangled,” Humphrey tells us, “and yet I could read the workings of his mind as clearly as though it were a printed book.” <br />
<br />
Possibly. But if so, he is the only one. <br />
<br />
At one point in Chapter 12, several men are chasing Mugridge so they might seize him up and tow him behind the ship. Mugridge resists by running away. He had little stomach for a dip, we are told, “as the water was frightfully cold, and his was anything but a rugged constitution.” Two lines later he is flashing along the deck with a “nimbleness and speed we did not dream he possessed.” <br />
<br />
There then takes place a bit of stage business that demonstrates Mugridge’s agility, though not in the way London probably hoped. Mugridge is being chased by one Harrison, and is springing like a cat to the tops of cabins, shinnying down scuttles, racing through rigging, and in all ways moving like a young and agile ape, to avoid being thrown in the water. Harrison is “at his heels and gaining on him.” Then: <br />
<br />
“Mugridge, leaping suddenly, caught the jib-boom-lift. It happened in an instant. Holding his weight by his arms, and in mid-air doubling his body at the hips, he let fly with both feet. The oncoming Harrison caught the kick squarely in the pit of the stomach, groaned involuntarily, and doubled up and sank backward to the deck.” <br />
<br />
Now I am as credulous as any reader, but in this case I must crave an explanation for how a man being frantically chased can suddenly grab hold of a line above his head, double at the hips, and kick the man behind him in the stomach. I have run through this action many times in my imagination and can only conclude that 1. Mugridge was a contortionist and could double himself backward or 2. London was eager to finish writing for the day and get drinking. <br />
<br />
And as for Harrison groaning involuntarily, well, yes, I imagine he did. I am certain it was involuntary and I’m certain it was more than a groan—more like a bark or a grunt or a shriek—some expostulation more urgent than a groan and entirely beyond the groan category. It was a sound that was punched out of Harrison, kicked out of him, not squshed by slow pressure as a groan would have been. I also don’t wonder that Harrison “doubled up and sank backward” after being kicked in the stomach, though people in that situation more often fly backward than sink. Let that pass. This is a story thick with unusual characters exhibiting unusual behavior. Perhaps this is the proper way to behave aboard the Ghost. <br />
<br />
There are many more examples, but we need not continue. I’ll only say I’m glad there is plenty more of London's writing to represent the man. If this were all he would never have gotten out of Oakland. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-83555132229120094562013-06-10T17:10:00.003-07:002015-12-08T17:01:39.410-08:00An End to All Your Worries<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;"></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">This
week, a new feature: Ask Cosmopolitan Magazine.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dear
Cosmopolitan Magazine: I'm an independent young woman trying to be more
sociable. I don't know much about your magazine except that it contains many
photographs of extremely beautiful couples who appear to be about to have sex,
so I thought you might have some advice. – Unsure</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dear
Unsure: We have all kinds of advice for you. We publish 12 issues a year of
advice just for you, dear, sweet, upwardly mobile but still insecure Cosmo
Girl. Please refer to our special 21-page section in the May issue, called
"Understanding Men," which contains such interesting articles as
"The Joy of Polarity Sex," which does not involve electrical sockets
no matter what it sounds like.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Also
read articles such as "The Mysterious Male Ego (Yes, it's Big)," wherein
we give you many examples of women having trouble making their men function
properly because they, um, because they - well, it's not clear why, but you'll
love the snappy graphics.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Also
please find the article wherein we discuss the four male personality types -
Bad Boy, Good Guy, Brainy Man and Sexy Hunk - based on the four celebrities we
happened to have pictures of this month, including, if can believe this,
Microsoft President Bill Gates.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">This
should clear up any insecurities you may have and replace them with entirely
new ones.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dear
Cosmo: I'm looking for a way to spruce up my appearance. Any tips? -Feeling Drab</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dear
Drab: Fashion and appearance tips are a crucial part of our monthly fare. Any
time you need inspiration, please consult our cover photograph, which every
month features a beautiful woman constructed mostly of petrochemical products.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Environmental
tip: Many of the beauty products advertised in our pages may also be used in
home renovation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">For
those on a budget: You can save money on fragrances by rubbing the magazine
directly against your chest.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dear
Cosmo: What is the biggest challenge to you as a magazine? - Curious</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dear
Curious: I would say it's finding two or three hundred different ways to run
the same story about breaking up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dear
Cosmo: What is the most bizarre insecurity you can find to write a story about?
- Still Curious</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Dear
Still Curious: This month it would be the story about dealing with jealous
bridesmaids on your wedding day.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Question:
What about bizarre advice?</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Answer:
That would have to be the story on page 166 about how to faint in moments of
high emotional drama. This article cautions, however, that you shouldn't
attempt to fake faint unless you've practiced at home on a rug.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Question:
How many subscriptions did you say you sell?</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="font-size: 12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt;">Answer:
So many it's scary, friend.</span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<br /></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-92133382557582536122013-03-11T19:38:00.001-07:002013-03-11T19:39:26.758-07:00How to Speak Good<br />
Greetings English speakers! Today we'll talk about getting orientated toward language, so that next chance you get you'll speak real good in public and absolutely wheeze all kinda class and refinement, and have a positive impact (KABOOM!) on your listeners. <br />
<br />
It's very important to speak good, when speaking to others. Fluency in speech confers upon the speaker a sense of education, earnestness, sobriety--a sense that this person actually paid attention in English class, and is therefore probably a starchy little weasel-eyed prig. <br />
<br />
If you get beat up because of this, speaking clearly on the phone to the ambulance people will increase your chance of getting quick medical care. So. A few points and pointers for effective speaking in public: <br />
<br />
When speaking to another person, it's important to use correct word forms--and we're not talking about just in public but anywheres. You should use the proper word forms irregardless of what your friends say. Hopefully, you'll also use correct grammar, not just any old grammar laying around. <br />
In constructing your sentences, try not to be redundant, saying the same thing twice or even three times, thus repeating yourself over and over and over again.<br />
<br />
Use words that have some legitimate history of use in the English language, and not words you've completely made up, such as "tribiculate."<br />
<br />
(To "tribiculate" is to write on something using three ballpoint pens.)<br />
<br />
While we're on the subject, do not use other words you've made up, such as: <br />
<br />
- Wieroin. (noun. A kind of weathervane.)<br />
<br />
- Nastacular. (adj. Un-amazing, un-excellent. Vehemently ordinary. Used to describe disappointing events, events which did not live up to their advance press, such as national elections.)<br />
<br />
- Spondacious. (adj. Delightful, delicious, often used to describe ice cream.) <br />
<br />
- Elgoto. (A Peruvian hotel chain.) <br />
<br />
Also, don't use words people <em>think</em> you've made up but didn't, such as: <br />
<br />
- Conglobatio. (adj. Gathering into a globe or ball.)<br />
<br />
- Callipygian. (adj. Having shapely buttocks.) <br />
<br />
When delivering a public address, follow this procedure. First, get the attention of your audience somehow, either by clearing your throat, or by holding your breath and making your eyes go white like Li'l Orphan Annie, or by shaking your (callipygian) behind around, or by holding up a large automatic weapon. Then, wait a judicious interval. (A judicious interval is the space between Jewish people.) <br />
<br />
Then, speak forcefully, in a resonant (full of resin) voice, building your arguments carefully, pre-empting objections, covering the premises thoroughly, and arriving at your point with that strong, reverberant, elephantine certainty which signals that this speaker, indeed, has taken the audience in his hand, and made them go to sleep. <br />
<br />
While they're dozing, take their wallets. <br />
<br />
One last point on speaking to others. Remember the old saying: You have two ears and only one mouth. What does that say about the ratio of talking to listening? <br />
<br />
Of course. You've got to talk twice as much as anyone wants to hear. <br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-74463032990266433432013-01-30T07:35:00.000-08:002015-12-08T17:00:30.765-08:00Virginia City<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">Now it’s true the place
looks the part--both exactly as you’d expect and startling. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2VGVQ4xQnNs/UQlEwoPa3EI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/BmAkq9P0FJI/s1600/Virginia-City-C-Street_mr.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2VGVQ4xQnNs/UQlEwoPa3EI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/BmAkq9P0FJI/s200/Virginia-City-C-Street_mr.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "constantia";">As you arrive over the
last little swale into the mountain town, 1875 is suddenly spread out before
you, like a late chromo of Currier and Ives, if Currier and Ives had been
western prospectors: Long wooden sidewalks, their planks athwart the
now-invisible muddy trenches, covered with sloping roofs to make a long colonnade
down both sides of the street. Big airy rooms inside grand picture windows,
with high patterned ceilings and chandeliers of tinted glass, a flamboyant saloon
every 50 running feet, gaudy storefronts emblazoned in the grandiose lettering
of the gold rush. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">And it’s true you get
howdy’s from folks in the street, from folks who probably have a right to say howdy,
and wear cowboy hats and dungarees, though stricter gun laws won’t allow the
revolver at the side, which would complete the picture. And, oh yes, it’s true
that Virginia City plays the part of the wild west mining town, wild in action
and wild in speculation, the greatest American boom town of the 1870s, to
perfection for the tourists. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">But a great deal
remains unexplained. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">Lookit. Here’s a town
lodged high on a mountainside, away above the clouds, like Machu Picchu or
Shangri-La, connected to the outside world by a couple of steep grades almost
useless in the winter, occupying its own atmosphere. It’s one of those places
where the meridians cross or the vibrations resonate or the chakras align, or
however you might want to account for the fact that people arrive here and
their eyes go wide and they settle down in an old shack or a hut and go to work
in the library and depart nevermore. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">Perfect example:
Diamond Jim, manning the Visitor Center desk most days of the week, came here
after a double homicide next door in Stockton California persuaded him it was
time to leave. Ditto Terry down at the Silver Queen Hotel, who also came from
California but without a double murder for persuasion. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">Something cozy,
something close. Like the wooden sidewalks and their covering of roofs. Or the
narrowness of the street. Or the compactness of the locale, its size
constrained by the rakish angle of the earth at this spot. Or the isolation of
being alone on a mountainside with the world far below, the all-for-one-and-one-for-all
of an exclusive commonwealth whose membership requirement is only that pair of
wide eyes. </span><br />
<br />
</div>
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ssPvLoIkmCM/UQlE5v_eyqI/AAAAAAAAAfY/odFOBRd0RJk/s1600/5HistoricCStreet1900.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="384" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ssPvLoIkmCM/UQlE5v_eyqI/AAAAAAAAAfY/odFOBRd0RJk/s640/5HistoricCStreet1900.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-family: "constantia";">Oh yes, there is
history. One of the great silver strikes of the world took place on this spot,
the Comstock Lode, discovered in 1859 and not entirely mined out yet. Remember
the Hearsts, as in William Randolph? That fortune started here. Ever heard of
San Francisco? The money made here largely built it, and then rebuilt it after
the earthquake. Do you know the state of Nevada? Statehood arrived soon after
Virginia opened its first saloon, and largely because of the money here. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">And there is fame, yes,
there is fame. Step right up to the curb in the Crystal Bar saloon and view the
tourist brochures mounted on the very wood where George Hearst, Dan DeQuille,
Joe Goodman and Sam Clemens all contemplated the first happy drinks of the
evening. Across the street is the office of the Territorial Enterprise, at one
time the most influential paper in the west, where most of these gentlemen
worked. Clemens devoted a big part of a later book to life in boomtown Virginia
in the early 60s, when mining shares were trading like quarters and a chance
encounter in the street could make you rich. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">But the place has other
sorts of appeal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">In the current office
of the Territorial Enterprise, for example, you will find scaling the north
wall a pair of parallel panels and the remnants of a pulley system. These are all
that is left of the dumb waiter that for many years moved copy, printing
plates, galley proofs, and probably whiskey among the three floors of the
building. The foot of this dumb waiter resides in the basement, among artifacts
of the small Mark Twain museum and the ancient printing press, still anchored
like grim death in the bedrock of the basement floor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">It is this dumb waiter
that lets all the ghosts in. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">Ghosts, spirits,
phantomlike entities, ectoplasmic exhalations, whatever you might want to call
them, and whatever might be their provenance: Ghosts invest the town as
thoroughly as any deluge of tourists. It is thought—at least by the ghost
hunter TV shows that have made this place a favorite—that the dumb waiter is
their portal. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">Well, for some of them,
perhaps. It depends what kind of ghosts you’re talking about. Clearly the
portal would be handy for the dozens of miners still lying in the 750 miles of
mine tunnel beneath the town. But you must assume that many of the ghosts, like
their living co-inhabitants, just found a place in town they liked and settled
down. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">The Washoe Club, the
most haunted place in town, during the silver boom the home of the Millionaires
Club, now boasts a museum devoted to many of the ghosts who apparently do not
commute from below but who live in the building year round. The ghost of the prostitute
in the Silver Queen Hotel clearly needs no portal from the underworld, but can
remain cozy and ensconced in the room where she killed herself, and never
trouble to leave the building. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">None of the spirits in
the Washoe Club travel so very far outside their domain, though they do remain
quiet for long periods. Perhaps the museum now devoted to them gratifies their
ghostly egos enough that they need not stir nor rattle nor shake but for part
of the year, and can kick back all the rest of it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "constantia";">Spirits or humans,
ectoplasm or protoplasm, long-term resident or recent arrival, there is an agreement
here that life should pause for a while and progress no further. And so far it
has kept the spirits of all worlds content. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-20959084533450551832012-12-01T17:09:00.001-08:002012-12-01T17:16:07.826-08:00A Tale of Heroism and Chili<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Captain,
on the quarterdeck: Well, shipmates, the time has come to tell you the full
story of the recent dashing and heroic exploits that culminated, amid great
throb and hubbub, in my glorious injuries last week. Sit back, for I shall
recall for you such an exploit of courage and derring-do that you shall not
soon regain your normal vision, probably. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Crew
Member Na'eem: Oh, please, derring-don’t. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
Why, it was at Isthmus Cove’s fair harbor we lay, the wind blowing strong from
the fan, and all about us were the telltales of great disasters about to
befall. We hove up our anchor, and she cast starboard toward the reef, The jibs
rose with alacrity, and the--<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Crewmember
Lucia: Excuse me, Captain. Did you say we have more creamer? I couldn’t find
any. I can’t even find the powdered stuff. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
It’s in the galley refrigerator, the upstairs one. Look on the lower shelf. You
might have to look under Captain John’s high fiber cereal. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Lucia:
I’ll look again. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
The jibs rose with alacrity, and perhaps also a fine powder of guano, and round
she came, missing the reef by mere inches, her nose at last toward the open
sea. Sail upon sail we piled upon her, with the breeze fresh on our--<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Crewmember
Jay: Pardon me, skipper, toilets in B are clogged again. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
What? How can that be? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Jay:
Dunno. Pump handle is stuck as a rod. I tried pumping it through but it got
hard enough where the water starts to seep out around the hoses, like it did
before it exploded on you last time, you remember? <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
Yes, I remember. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Crew
Member Jay: So I quit that and put the sign up saying use the head in A. The
head in A is getting a good workout this trip. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
Well I hope not too much. That’s my favorite toilet, very peaceful in there. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Jay:
I’ll keep an eye on it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
Well, so! With a fresh breeze on our quarter! Our boom was a-laying far out at
port, with that breeze wafting us straight--straight, my friends--into the arms
of danger! For as we exited that fair green harbor and she felt the first
stirrings of the vast pacific beneath her, and the westerlies on our beam, our
good ship—<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">First
Mate Connie: Captain? The adult leaders want to land the trainees at Avalon at
5, but that’s not going to work if we want to serve dinner at 6. I figure it’ll
take two hours to offload and onload the groups. Plus we don’t have nearly
enough chicken salad.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
What do you suggest? <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Connie:
Well, I’ve worked out a few possible scenarios and printed them out in full
color using the printer I built from seine twine and old radio parts. Now
you’ll see using the first method that we send the first group ashore right at
5, and they immediately deploy to the store for emergency chicken salad. Then they
return to the boat while the second group-- <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
Very good, very good. Do what you think is best, Connie. I cannot possibly come
up with a better plan I am sure. Also I find that chicken salad is a strange
and not-entirely-attractive concept to me just now. Please you take care of it
and tell me what I have decided to do. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Connie:
Aye aye! <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
And the, um, westerlies on our beam and…Oh yes, and as our fair ship felt the
first stirrings of the vast Pacific beneath her keel, and there gloomed the
dark, broad seas before as, and we smote the sounding furrows with our counter,
then it was that--<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Crewmember
Eric: Captain? What do you say I mix in some chocolate with the chili we’re
cooking? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
Chocolate?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span lang="EN" style="mso-ansi-language: EN; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Eric: Chocolate deepens the meaty
flavor of the chili while giving a strong base note to the peppers. They do
this all the time in the south at chili-baking contests. Sometimes they--<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
Yes, Eric, yes, yes, yes, put whatever you like in the chili. Put in colyrium, and
coriander, and tears of mastic, and unguents and fragrant balms. Throw in a
couple pounds of horse radish and some vanilla extract. I know it will be
delicious. Go now, Go with my blessing and we’ll meet at dinner and compare
notes on our digestion.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Eric:
Okay!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
Smote the sounding furrows, and…and….our good ship—<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Adult
Leader: Captain, when do you think we’ll get back to port tomorrow? The kids
want some time to go the candy store, and if there’s a chance they can sing
karaoke at the Fish Market they’d like that too. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Captain:
CONNIE! Please take over for me, I’m going below and not coming out until
September. <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;">Connie:
Aye aye!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"></span><br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, "Times New Roman", serif; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-56527030121927086722012-10-28T21:29:00.001-07:002012-12-01T17:10:59.827-08:00<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6463967-the-big-short" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine" border="0" src="http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1290480108m/6463967.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/6463967-the-big-short">The Big Short: Inside the Doomsday Machine</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/776.Michael_Lewis">Michael Lewis</a><br />
<br />
Michael Lewis somehow tells the huge story of a collapsing mortgage market--and all the related disasters we know too well--from the perspective of the dweebs, cranks and geniuses who saw it coming, and who profited from it. You can't call it a cautionary tale, because the author, like the reader, finds it too interesting, too outlandish, to moralize over. And it will no doubt happen again, the great boom, the confident knowledge of infinite increase, and the inevitable crash, in some other guise. It's gratifying that the good guys in this story, at least in Lewis's telling, are the ones who refused to join the rush and chose to believe their own eyes. In this age of stampede and chicanery, that's something worth moralizing about. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/6578075-rob">View all my reviews</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-52196126584791497252012-01-07T12:02:00.000-08:002012-12-01T17:11:16.790-08:00<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4820.Mayflower" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="Mayflower: A Story of Courage, Community, and War" border="0" src="http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1309283504m/4820.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/4820.Mayflower">Mayflower: A Story of Courage, Community, and War</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1641.Nathaniel_Philbrick">Nathaniel Philbrick</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Why is it hard to read this book, especially the second half?<br />
<br />
Is it because it describes a bloody war between previously peaceful Indians and colonists, a war that sealed apparently forever the antagonism between the two races, and relegated native Americans to outsider status in their own land?<br />
<br />
Yes. And because of the horrendous slow-motion details Philbrick provides of this war, and the convincing case he makes that it might not have happened this way. For emphasized by the author's excellent scholarship is the unmistakeable fact that Indians and colonists lived peaceably together for more than 50 years after the Pilgrims landed. That they eventually came to fight was not foreordained, unless the Anglo Saxon greed for land and the increase of one's material wealth really does shape destiny. Well, no doubt it does.<br />
<br />
Americans owe it to themselves, at long last, to get some corrective for the Pilgrim history they learned in high school. For many this will be their first time seeing more deeply into native American character than the textbooks allow, and that depth will surprise them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/6578075-rob">View all my reviews</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-80687593126668671382011-12-19T11:42:00.000-08:002012-12-01T17:11:31.308-08:00<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/94529.Blue_Latitudes" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px;"><img alt="Blue Latitudes: Boldly Going Where Captain Cook Has Gone Before" border="0" src="http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1316136524m/94529.jpg" /></a><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/94529.Blue_Latitudes">Blue Latitudes: Boldly Going Where Captain Cook Has Gone Before</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/16541.Tony_Horwitz">Tony Horwitz</a><br />
<br />
Let this wonderful book be your introduction to Captain Cook and the culture of love and vitriol surrounding him, even today. Cook was not an American, of course, and so there is nothing absolutely great he could have accomplished in the way of daring and understanding and prudence when exploring both poles and every latitude between on three unprecedented voyages. However, for an Englishman he did pretty well. He charted previously uncharted waters with a thoroughness and precision unmatched until the 20th century. He made friends with most of Polynesia, and opened lands as far-spread as Australia and Alaska to further European exploration, for better or worse. His story deserves to be better known, and what better time than the current age of historical counter-revisionism to know it. And who better than Tony Horwitz to tell it. Horwitz is such an engaging writer and storyteller it's a toss up whether his retelling of Cook's story, or his own modern travelogue and search for the real Cook, is more entertaining. Readers can't lose either way.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/6578075-rob">View all my reviews</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-1722194446342545312011-10-09T22:18:00.003-07:002011-10-09T22:26:14.496-07:00Six Frigates, by Ian Toll<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39000.Six_Frigates" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img alt="Six Frigates: The Epic History of the Founding of the U.S. Navy" src="http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1169228103m/39000.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/39000.Six_Frigates">Six Frigates: The Epic History of the Founding of the U.S. Navy</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/21986.Ian_W_Toll">Ian W. Toll</a><br /><br />My rating: <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/220085752">5 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />Toll tells this story thoroughly and well: America didn't want a navy, and remained dubious even when necessity forced her hand. For a while she acquiesced in the extortion demanded by the barbary states, but then stood up to them--resulting in the loss of a brand new frigate, lots and lots of money, and other humiliations. Other nations thought she was crazy.<br /><br />And she was, to a great extent. Her new design of frigates had no precedent and freaked out everyone charged with building them. The building itself was an ordeal beyond imagining. The timber cutters got malaria and died in droves. Costs overran, the newspapers printed scandal, the politicians warred. Then the new president halted construction--for a while--and very nearly killed the young economy.<br /><br />A bit later, an enterprising British force burned much of the capital and a great deal more, and marched overland in a sort of proto-blitzkrieg, sowing havoc and confusion through the states--basically just to show that they could.<br /><br />Fierce, strutting American officers found their delicate honors incensed, and shot each other at a rate greater than any enemy. Newly minted American captains rolled off the line, some of them very good, others not. America achieved a few spectacular victories in single ship actions, but lost many others, and never had the slightest chance against the greatly superior Royal Navy, as everyone knew.<br /><br />But something altogether unexpected arose from all this. That was the confirmation of the incredible good luck--some say the divine guidance--that America enjoyed during her formative years. Through all the bumbling and bluster the country somehow got through. And that, according to many, is what makes her exceptional. However, you can see this, as Toll clearly shows, only if you don't examine the details too closely.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/6578075-rob"></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10688870.post-11286820626580584112011-10-09T21:11:00.002-07:002011-10-09T22:29:14.188-07:00White Jacket, by Herman Melville<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/296462.White_Jacket" style="float: left; padding-right: 20px"><img alt="White Jacket" src="http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1173483561m/296462.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/296462.White_Jacket">White Jacket</a> by <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1624.Herman_Melville">Herman Melville</a><br /><br />My rating: <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/show/220085711">4 of 5 stars</a><br /><br />Melville never made it as a novelist--really: Moby Dick and his other "novels" failed, with a failure that still echoes. Possibly that's because he could never shape himself quite to the novel pattern. He enjoyed the facts too much--small wonder, with his own life constructed of facts almost too exotic to believe. He was one of a very few of his time strong enough to visit the far shores and talented enough to paint them, a very rugged, and very American, sort of genius.<br /><br />But this is too much praise to the America of that age, I think. Melville's allusions, his offhand references, presume a base of classical knowledge rare in his generation and non-existent in ours. Expounding upon those allusions could fill a large book--and indeed that book exists. Its study would make a decent education all by itself.<br /><br />Yet we continue to treat books like White Jacket as novels, possibly because we have no name for the genre Melville invented, and occupied all alone for a very long time. It was a kind of adventure anthropology, the explication of the unfamiliar through a sharp and thorough eye, told with humor and poetry. No one did it before, and no one has done it since. Maybe no one ever will do it again.<br /><br />Students of American maritime history should consider themselves lucky that this eye dwelt so long on an American warship of 1841--as it happens, one of the original six frigates signed into being by George Washington. Here, far more thoroughly and acutely than I have seen anywhere else, is the picture of life aboard an American warship in active service during formative years of the mid-19th century.<br /><br />We meet the people, learn the usages, hear the rolling of the drums to quarters--almost feel the lash. We get more than the flavor of the officers' insolence, and feel the injustice of an essentially British system of discipline imposed on an American democratic ethos. We also see something of Melville the reformist crusader, whose stated objective it was to make known the horrors of flogging to a wide audience. In this, even if the book sold poorly, he succeeded.<br /><br />As an historical document alone this book is extremely worthwhile. When you add the fact of Melville's authorship, you have a very strong recommendation indeed.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/review/list/6578075-rob"></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml"><img src="http://www.feedburner.com/fb/images/pub/feed-icon32x32.png" alt="" style="border:0"/></a><a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/TheFightingShy" title="Subscribe to my feed" rel="alternate" type="application/rss+xml">Subscribe in a reader</a></div>The Fighting Shyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17131563712362066175noreply@blogger.com0